


i am haunted by humans

by leapylion3



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV), The Book Thief - Markus Zusak
Genre: 5+1 Things, Canonical Character Death, Child Death, Dark, Death in Childbirth, Drabble Collection, Gen, Kink Meme, Pre-A Game of Thrones, Robert's Rebellion, Strangulation, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-06
Updated: 2013-12-06
Packaged: 2018-01-03 14:57:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1071797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leapylion3/pseuds/leapylion3
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five conversations Death had with the recently deceased, and one conversation with someone who barely escaped him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i am haunted by humans

**Author's Note:**

> just a quick thing i whipped up
> 
> any and all mistakes are mine 
> 
> title from markus zusak's _the book thief_ (go read it and go watch it if you haven't already) 
> 
> prompt: _Five conversations Death had with the recently deceased and one he had with someone who barely escaped him. I just saw The Book Thief so I really wanted more of Death’s perspective and commentary, especially on ASOIAF characters._

**_1\. Brandon_ **

It’s always painful, really, watching people die.

There’s nothing I can do about it; I am forced to stand by and watch as they struggle, clinging onto the last breath of their lives. They glare at me in hatred, curse at me, wailing, begging me to stop. If I could make them live forever, I would. (Collecting souls is my job, certainly, but I’ve been doing it for an awfully long time. It gets a bit repetitive and, well, _lonely_.)

The worst is when I have to watch them struggle.

“Stop them!” he screamed, his throat raw. “You can’t just stand there! _Do_ something!” His eyes were bloodshot, and he looked half-mad as his gaze locked with mine. I could not blame him, though.

“I can’t.” The longsword lay at my feet, the same longsword he was reaching for. His fingers only grasped the air, desperately searching. I would have liked nothing more than to give it to him, but it would only slide through my hands. People often envisioned me with a large scythe; it would have come it handy right then.

“You’re just as bad as they are!” He wanted to slap me, to yell and kick and punch me in across the jaw, I could tell; I’d seen that demeanor before, on millions of people. “Burn in the deepest pits of the Seven Hells!”

I smiled wryly, humourlessly. “I’m already there.”

I would have to take his father’s soul soon, but Brandon’s was first. I had to watch as he strangled himself, sobbing and red-faced and roaring. The wolf howled up to the moon, and he all but ran into my arms. 

* * *

**_2._ ** **_Elia_ **

She lay there, battered and broken and bruised. Her tears, silent as a shadow, mingled with her blood. Everyone called her frail and sickly, but, years later, I still do not see it. She was regal, keeping her head held high, as her life slowly drained out of her. Even in her death, she was a true queen; the queen Westeros needed.

“Princess,” I murmured, my robes swishing on the floor with every step.

Her eyes narrowed slightly, scrutinizing me. “I suppose you’re here to kill me?”

“That’s already been done, I’m afraid.” I shrugged. “I’m just here to clean up the mess.”

Her voice lowered to a whisper, and her gaze dropped down to the two bundles in my arms. “You couldn’t spare them?” She spat at my feet, a pitiful growl forming at the back of her throat.

“It’s already written in the books, Princess. You can blame Fate for it.” I knelt next to where she sat in a pool of her blood. Gently, I placed the bundles in her arms, the two reticent souls. “I don’t normally do this.”

“Talking?”

I cracked a tiny smile. “That, too. But, well, the souls are usually mine to take.” She only seemed to hold onto them tighter. She would not give them up, but I would not be so cruel as to make her. It was a…gift, of sorts.

“Thank you.”

I scooped Elia of Dorne up into my arms, and her eyes fell shut for the last time.

* * *

 

**_3\. Rhaegar_ **

The silver prince floated in the river, rubies dripping from his open wounds. He stared up at the clouds, unblinking, barely breathing. I waved my hand, illuminating the sky with a red comet, visible to only him. He was a dragon, this one. He deserved to be treated as one, if only for his final moments.

My clothes grew heavy with water as I waded out to meet the prince. If I had been able to feel, I would have known that the river was cold. Rhaegar’s skin and lips were beginning to turn a pale blue, though that could have easily just as been because he was dying.

He was dying, and he knew it.

There was nothing that could be done to stop it.

“If you’re going to gloat, I do suggest that you hurry it up.”

I raised an eyebrow at him. “Gloat? I’m almost offended that you think that lowly of me.”

“Well, you _are_ Death. There are many worse things people say about you.”

I could not deny that.

“The kingdom bleeds because of me. I deserve gloating.” He swallowed thickly. “I deserve worse.”

“I visited your wife and children today.” I took a step towards Rhaegar, my hands clasped behind my back. “They died honourably.” I was not sorry, though, never sorry; it was my job and my duty. I could not be remorseful for the tasks that let me continue… _being_. (For I was not alive; I never was, and I never would be.) I’d learnt that regrets were nothing more than tools to haunt us, and humans were haunting enough.

His violet eyes welled up with tears, sparkling like amethysts. “Elia,” he whispered, his lower lip trembling. His soul rolled into my arms, melting into me like cold cream on a hot summer’s day.

“There is another child,” I said, my voice booming. No one heard, though; no one ever heard me.

* * *

 

**_4\. Lyanna_ **

The room smelt of winter roses. Images flashed in my mind, pictures of a she-wolf getting crowned with a ringlet of blue flowers. I saw the dragon prince, the princess of Dorne, the Mad King. (I had met the Mad King a couple of weeks ago; a charming fellow, really. He’d threatened to burn me if I came any closer, _burn them all_ , but that did not work out too well for him.)

“I’ve heard a lot about you, my lady.”

She was beautiful, even as she lay dying. Her lips were red; red like the dragons, red like the blood on her bedsheet. She did not flinch as I approached; in fact, she barely noticed my presence. She was focused on the small babe in a man’s arms; the tiny boy reached out for her, clenching and unclenching his fists. He was a pure Stark, in looks, a babe of the North.

Eddard, her brother, looked up. He might have seen me, though he did not show it. He must have been looking past me, through me, as all the others did. His time would come, but that day was not today. He was not supposed to meet me until then.

“I can’t leave him,” she said finally, her voice tight as she attempted not to cry. “He’s my son. I can’t leave him.”

“Your brother will take good care of him.” I could not tell her what I had seen, what would happen to the two of them. She would find out on her own, one day.

“Don’t take away my boy,” she murmured. Her hand reached out and found mine, gently squeezing. “Keep him safe for me.” She climbed into my arms, and all that was heard was the wailing of a babe.

* * *

 

**_5\. Ashara_ **

There were rumours that she was the most beautiful woman in all of Westeros, a title that had been contested and disputed over the past few months. I had met many beautiful people, Lannister and Targaryen and Tully alike. There was something exquisite about humans that I’d always admired. They changed throughout the years, growing older and older until I paid them a visit. The change was constant.

The most elegant of all, is the look of peace on their face as they lie in my arms.

The day was bright and clear, the air still humid in the early morning sun. The waves of the sea below rolled leisurely, crashing against the shore. Dorne was quite possibly the loveliest place I’d ever visited, if only for the ocean. The Crownlands were overcrowded, the North too cold, the Riverlands too muggy… Dorne was everything but.

“I’m scared,” Ashara whispered, clutching tightly onto the balcony rails.

“Most people are.”

“You’re just waiting for me to jump, aren’t you?” She stumbled, but quickly caught herself before slipping. Her tanned face had grown deathly pale, her pupils blown wide.

“I can turn away, if you’d like.”

“Don’t.” She swallowed thickly. “I’d like to at least have a witness.”

The rocks in the ocean jutted up like knives, threatening, smiling predatorily.

Lady Dayne met my gaze and smiled. “I’ll meet you downstairs.”

She jumped.

I scooped her up before she could hit the rocks; she did not deserve that kind of pain.

Her soul was gone from her body the moment she’d jumped from the balcony; she easily curled up into me, her body lithe and warm against mine.

* * *

 

 ** _1._** **_Barristan_**

My arms were heavy when I found him; I carried too many souls to count. The Battle of the Trident had been a bloody affair, messy and gruesome. I’d never liked the big battles; I always had so much to clean up afterwards.

He had several wounds on his body, his armour cracked and broken in multiple places. His ribs were cracked, and he had trouble breathing. He could barely keep his eyes open; they flitted and darted from side to side, refusing to close. He was a stubborn man, this one. I admired him for his tenacity.

“Good day, ser knight.”

“No,” he whispered, pressing his hand to his side to stop the bleeding. “Not today. I can’t.” _Too soon_ , he mouthed. It was always too soon for them, though, but it happened, anyway.

“You fought bravely today.” I crossed my arms over my chest, my brow furrowed in thought. “I still remember you fighting in the Blackhaven tourney.”

“You were there?”

“Of course.” I did not elaborate. “I’ll never forget it.” Barristan the Bold, disguised as a mystery knight. Back then, he’d been naught more than a lad of ten.

“ _Maesters_!” a voice boomed. A large man stormed over, holding his war hammer in his calloused hand. “Get a maester for Ser Barristan!” Robert Baratheon, leader of the rebellion. I’d half-expected to meet him properly sometime during the war, but he’d surprised me once again.

Barristan was lifted onto a stretcher, barely conscious. He had enough strength to raise his hand in a salute of sorts. “We will meet again.”

I nodded. “Good day, ser knight.”


End file.
